Someone Else
by Alicia K
Summary: Second story in the "Black Coffee In Bed" series.


Title: "Someone Else"   
Author: Alicia K.  
Email: spartcus1@msn.com  
Rating: PG-13, for language and sexual   
situations  
Category: Scully/Other, Angst  
Summary: Scully's turn.  
Archive: Spookys, yes. Anywhere else, please   
ask.  
Disclaimer: Scully and Mulder belong to 1013   
and Fox. No infringement is intended.  
  
Author's note: This is a companion piece to   
"Black Coffee In Bed". It would be helpful to   
have read that one first. It can be found at   
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html  
  
Many grateful thanks to my beta readers, Joanna   
and Mish. You guys are truly wonderful.  
  
XXX  
  
She stares at the ring, turning it in her   
fingers, studying it as if it held all the   
answers.  
  
She knows it isn't like her to feel this way,   
to act this way, but she figures she's on a   
roll and might as well continue being someone   
else for a while. For tonight.  
  
"Take it," he had said, pressing the gold band   
into her palm and curling her fingers around   
it. "Take it. It belongs to you, just like   
everything else, Scully."  
  
He'd looked at her, begging her with his eyes   
to stay, to talk, to listen and believe. But   
she had turned and walked out of his apartment,   
the ring clutched tightly in her hand. He had   
called her name once, both a plea and a curse,   
but she'd stepped into the elevator and let the   
doors close on his voice.  
  
She turns the glass in her hand, liking the way   
the condensation feels on her hot palm. She   
wonders if she would be here now if she hadn't   
set herself up for such a hard fall.  
  
If she'd kept herself closed off, kept herself   
private, would she be here in this bar?  
  
If she hadn't let him kiss her at midnight on   
the false millennium, would she be holding his   
ring in her hand?  
  
Maybe if she hadn't opened herself up to such   
vulnerability, she wouldn't be here.  
  
Maybe if she hadn't let Mulder in so far, so   
deep, she wouldn't be here at this bar, drink   
in one hand, ring in the other.  
  
Maybe.  
  
There is movement beside her as a man settles   
onto a stool two seats to her left. She   
stiffens, awaiting the inevitable attempt at   
bar conversation. Only then does she finally   
lift the glass to her lips, letting the whiskey   
burn and soothe her throat. She downs the two   
fingers of liquid in two swallows, then sets   
the empty glass back down on the bar   
emphatically.  
  
The ring is still pressed firmly in her other   
hand. Its weight is slight, and leaves no   
physical impression, but she knows she will   
always carry it with her, carry its mark upon   
her heart.  
  
Mulder had been married.  
  
She wonders if she would be here, had he come   
out and told her, rather than her finding out   
accidentally.  
  
"It means nothing to me now," he'd said. "It   
hasn't in years, Scully."  
  
"Then why do you have it?" she had demanded.   
"Why was it hidden in your desk drawer like a   
dirty little secret?"  
  
It wasn't bad enough that they had been called   
on to help with a case in the middle of what   
was to have been a so-called romantic evening,   
but to find this ugly thing while looking for   
his spare car keys was really the kicker.  
  
Maybe if he hadn't locked his keys in his car   
in the first place, she wouldn't be here.   
Maybe if he hadn't offered their expertise to   
Agent Gonzalez, she wouldn't be here. Maybe   
she shouldn't have answered her cell phone.   
Maybe she never should have let herself fall in   
love with Mulder.  
  
Shoulda, woulda, coulda, she thinks, raising   
the glass to her lips again; she's surprised   
and disappointed when only ice clinks against   
her teeth.  
  
"May I buy you another one of those?" the man   
beside her asks.  
  
She turns to appraise him coolly, eyes sweeping   
over his lean form, longish brown hair, and   
warm, dark eyes. The fact that he looks a   
little like Mulder does not escape her, and she   
gives him a crooked smile. "Sure," she says   
with a shrug.  
  
After leaving Mulder's apartment, she had   
driven around for almost an hour, but instead   
of calming her, it had made her even more   
determined to strike back.   
  
She had clutched his ring fiercely during the   
drive. Stopped at a red light, she'd opened   
her palm to inspect it fully. It was plain, as   
men's rings often are. No engravings, no   
stones, no inscription on its inner circle.  
  
Her fingers had closed around it again, and she   
slammed her hand back onto the steering wheel.   
She hadn't known what she was out to do, but   
she had driven for another few blocks and   
pulled the car into the parking lot of a small   
bar.  
  
She'd figured she wouldn't be drinking the   
Merlot she had brought to Mulder's, so she   
might as well drink something.  
  
Mulder must have still been mad, she'd figured,   
or pouting, because her cell hadn't rung yet.   
She hadn't heard his voice over the line,   
insisting that they talk. She didn't even know   
if she would have answered, had it rung.  
  
The man next to her stumbles to begin an   
awkward chit-chat. "Haven't seen you in here   
before," he says, then visibly cringes.  
  
Any other time, she would have ignored him or   
fixed him with a withering look, but tonight   
she responds. "No, I usually don't hit the   
bars after work."  
  
"You must have had a crappy day."  
  
She flips the ring between her fingers,   
watching the dim light glint off of it. She   
turns to him, balancing her fresh drink on her   
leg. "Why do you say that?"  
  
"Because you aren't really giving off that   
'happy hour' vibe."  
  
A happy hour vibe. She wonders if she's ever   
given off a happy hour vibe. "You know," she   
says thoughtfully, "I haven't had a happy hour   
in quite some time. I'd kill for even a happy   
minute."  
  
She stares down into her drink, pondering the   
circumstances of fate that had led her here,   
rather than engaging in some happy minutes with   
Mulder right now.  
  
She wants to strike back at him. Craning her   
neck slightly to the right, she peers at the   
guy's left hand: no ring.  
  
He's looking at her when she meets his gaze   
again, and they share a smile as she realizes   
that he's just done the same thing.  
  
"I'm Mike," he says, extending a hand.  
  
She stares at his hand for a moment, wondering   
if this is the bridge she should cross. She   
takes his hand. "Dana."  
  
Drinks and talk follow, and she feels her   
inhibitions loosening with the liquor and with   
the looks he sends her way.  
  
She likes the way he's looking at her: like he   
can't believe his unbelievable luck, that she   
had just fallen into his lap. Every woman   
deserved to be looked at like that. Mulder   
just looked at her like he was afraid of her,   
especially since they'd embarked on this new   
journey.  
  
They'd agreed to be more open with each other;   
they would have to be, if they wanted it to   
work. But it seemed to Scully that the thought   
of her opening up terrified him. He had   
listened attentively when she told him how it   
had felt to watch her daughter die, what it had   
been like to receive the last rites. She had   
even told him about her first boyfriend and   
their disastrous prom date.  
  
Aside from telling her a little about Phoebe   
and letting her know that he did indeed love   
her, he hadn't shared much else.  
  
And now that his elephant is out in the open,   
lumbering around the room, she feels foolish.   
How dare he hurt her like this? He knew how   
difficult it was for her to open herself to him   
and had repaid her honesty by delivering a hard   
kick to her soft, exposed underbelly.  
  
She finishes a third drink and makes a   
decision. If she can't fuck Mulder the   
traditional way, she's going to fuck him this   
way. He's not the only one who can have   
secrets, she thinks. And if he should find   
out, then let him hurt the way that I'm   
hurting.  
  
"Dana," Mike begins, then clears his throat   
nervously, "would you like to come home with   
me?"  
  
"Mike, are you propositioning me?"  
  
"Not if you're an undercover cop posing as a   
hooker," he blurts.  
  
She struggles not to smile. "If I were a   
little more sober, I'd kick your ass for that."   
She turns to pick up her small purse, and   
realizes that Mulder's ring is still clutched   
in her palm; she had forgotten it was there.  
  
Opening her fingers, she sees that it has left   
a darkened impression in her skin. She knows   
that the image will stay with her longer than   
the physical mark.   
  
Rising from the stool, she tosses the band onto   
the bar, where it slides over the surface and   
clanks against her empty glass.   
  
She turns to Mike, who is staring at the ring   
and blinking furiously. "Let's go," she says.  
  
His apartment is nearly empty, boxed and ready   
to go. She refuses to think of another writer   
she once knew with a barren apartment, and   
instead turns her head away from his kiss. She   
ignores his confused expression and takes his   
hand, heading down the hallway to where the   
bedroom must be.  
  
She stands in the middle of his bedroom and   
undresses quickly as he watches, looking as   
though he wants to tell her something. She   
knows she can't let that happen. Whatever he   
has to say can wait, or better yet, not be said   
at all.  
  
Feeling bad for pushing him away before, she   
pulls him down to her mouth and kisses him   
fully, letting him taste her and fill her mouth   
with his tongue. He reaches for her bared   
breasts, but she swats his hands away and   
begins to undress him.  
  
Have to do this quickly, she thinks. Have to   
do this before I change my mind, before I stop   
to think, before I bring Mulder into this   
bedroom, too.  
  
But she knows that Mulder is already there,   
watching with hurt, accusing eyes. He's   
sitting on the floor against the wall, arms   
folded over his chest as he watches her give   
herself to a stranger.  
  
Mike goes to find a condom, and she tosses off   
a silent 'fuck you' to invisible Mulder before   
stretching out on the bed, ready.  
  
He cries her name when he comes, and then falls   
asleep beside her. Although she is drowsy   
after her own sharp orgasm, she gets out of   
bed, dragging the sheet with her. She stands   
by the window, wrapping it around her naked   
body, and shoots the invisible Mulder in the   
corner a defiant glare.  
  
Happy, Scully?   
  
"No," she whispers.  
  
She goes over to Mike's discarded jeans and   
pulls out his cigarettes and lighter.   
Returning to the window, she opens it a few   
inches to let the smoke out. She knows it's   
presumptuous and rude to assume she can smoke   
in his bedroom, but she does so anyway.  
  
When the cigarette is almost gone, she wonders   
if she should leave while Mike is still asleep,   
but then he stirs behind her. "Hey," he says.  
  
She gives him a small smile of acknowledgement.   
"Hey."  
  
He offers her coffee, and she dresses while   
he's in the kitchen. He looks briefly   
disappointed when he returns, but then he   
smiles and hands her a steaming mug with a   
Superman logo on it.  
  
They sit on the bed and talk of Chicago and   
divorce, and when he says her name, she has to   
stop him. He now looks at her like a man with   
an infatuation, which makes her feel strange   
and sad.  
  
"Don't, Mike," she says gently, and leans in to   
give him a small kiss.  
  
Her cell phone rings, she spills her coffee and   
swears, and one moment of strangeness is   
exchanged for another. The sharp trill jolts   
her back to her real life for a moment, and she   
pushes the button automatically. "Scully," she   
snaps.  
  
And it's the hospital, calling because Mulder   
has a broken wrist and a concussion. Duty and   
a sick sense of devotion overshadow everything   
she'd felt that day, and she knows she must go.   
No matter what they've done to each other, she   
has to be at his side, and the thought angers   
her.  
  
She drops her chin to her chest and pinches her   
lips together, fighting back the frustration.   
"I have to go."  
  
She lets him drive her to the hospital, and as   
much as she wants to leap out of the car and   
avoid this awkward situation, she waits for   
just a moment. "I'm sorry," she says wearily,   
eyes drifting closed in the darkness of the   
car, outside the emergency entrance.  
  
"I hope everything's okay," he tells her, and   
she dreads what will come next. "Can I see you   
again?"  
  
You can't see me, she thinks, turning to fumble   
with the door handle. You can't see me because   
I have nothing to give you - nothing that   
doesn't already belong to someone else. "I'm   
sorry." And she flees the smothering warmth of   
the car, running away from her second mistake   
and toward her first.  
  
A nurse leads her to Mulder, who is awake and   
looking embarrassed at being caught unawares by   
the suspect. A bandage covers his forehead,   
and his left arm is in a cast. He looks up   
when she enters the room, and she stops only a   
few feet in.  
  
She feels awkward and silly, standing there,   
holding her purse, her hair mussed. She   
wonders if she looks like she just woke up, or   
if she looks like she's just been fucked; she   
hopes it's not the latter.  
  
She lets him stare at her and tries to think of   
something to say. She realizes now that she   
needn't have run down here so quickly. I   
wonder, she thinks, fiddling with a button on   
her leather coat, if he thinks I rushed down   
here to make amends, to take him home and fall   
into his arms.  
  
Raising her eyes again, she approaches the bed   
and instinctively runs her fingers through his   
hair; it's as if she's checking for any   
injuries the doctors may have missed. It's an   
absurd gesture, and she starts to pull her hand   
back.  
  
Mulder grabs her wrist and looks at her, his   
eyes hard and hurt. She puzzles over this for   
the briefest of moments, then realizes that she   
smells like sex and cigarettes.  
  
"Aren't you going to invite him in, Scully?"   
His voice is chilly and flat, and she imagines   
that she can read an underlying world of   
emotions beneath the surface.  
  
She doesn't blush or look away, but her eyes   
fill with stinging tears. She wants him to   
take her unwavering as an admission, and by the   
way he drops her hand and turns away, she knows   
he's taken it as such.   
  
"Well, at least this time you stayed in town   
instead of jetting off to Philadelphia."  
  
She flinches and steps away to drop into the   
chair at his bedside, pushing her hands through   
her tangled hair. "This is so fucked up."  
  
"What is?" he snaps unnecessarily, facing her   
again.  
  
She drops her hands and glares at him. "Us,   
Mulder. We are."  
  
He closes his eyes. She wonders if he's   
disappointed with her apparent lack of remorse   
or guilt; she feels both, but she'd rather die   
than give him the satisfaction. "Yeah, so I   
was married, and you like to go out and have   
one night stands."  
  
"Fuck you, Mulder," she says in a low voice,   
right hand gripping her purse strap like she   
had clutched his ring earlier; she remembers   
that the ring is still at the bar and hopes   
with a pang of smugness that it's been tossed   
into the trash.  
  
He turns his head away again. "You don't want   
to fuck me, Scully. You'd have to face me the   
next morning."  
  
She leaves him then, slamming the door hard   
enough to rattle the pane of glass within the   
wood.  
  
XXX  
  
Still with me? There will be a third and final   
story to this series.  
  
Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com  
  
  
  
  



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